


Not Easy Sport

by black_hat_with_bells



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: F/M, explicit content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-14
Updated: 2011-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_hat_with_bells/pseuds/black_hat_with_bells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>from prompter: "Sylar/Monica: the serial killer & St Joan, mortal enemies and sometime lovers"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Easy Sport

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perdiccas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/gifts).



> written for prompt meme for perdiccas (prompter) on lj

“What’s a little girl like you doing playing hero?”

His fingers pulled at her mask, and she studied him, trying to get a lock on his powers.

Monica hadn’t figured on becoming a hero.

She had figured on her life being run-of-the-mill. She did feel she was meant for something more, but she thought more along the lines of getting out the city, getting a great education, and traveling a little.

She met him when he came looking for…well, one of her cousin-in-laws. Or something. Long story there. She had already caused one death already and she wasn’t going to cause another. She dressed in her outfit like that comic book had shown, and went to fight when her cousin told her that Tracy needed help.

It didn’t go as planned. Sylar (what kind of name was that anyway?) had her cornered.

“I’m not much of a hero. I’m just trying to do the right thing,” she said, and he tilted his head, giving her a downright creepy smile. “Make a difference.”

“And what can you do?”

“Let me down—and I’ll show you.”

“Yeah right. That’s a compelling argument,” he snorted.

“Scared?” She dared him.

“Hardly.”

He stepped back, unpinning her. That had been so unnerving, pinned there. Surreal. He was dressed in all black too, skulking and looming and all that silly stuff, and so Monica had to ask.

”What you, a grown man, playing villain? You could do a lot of good on your own, make something of yourself. Not taking from other people like a common thief.”

He rolled his eyes, but she could tell she had made him more than a little testy. “I’m…more complicated than that.”

“I bet you have one little thing in common with every other man on the planet.”

Before he could move, she moved. She ducked, blocked his hand from ‘pinning’ her again, and kicked him low. He buckled over, hissing in pain, and she was out of the window.

She expected him to move on to his habits, his past killings, but this month—he had become her shadow.

Seems she had hurt his pride.

***

The more Monica learned about him, the more it seemed like he could take her out easily.

It’s just the telekinesis trick didn’t work when you got the drop on him. She tried that one night when he had followed her to an abandoned warehouse. She was in the rafters, holding on for dear life, and she was trying that breathing technique she had seen on TV, slowing the rate of noise.

“I know you’re in here. I can feel you,” he said. “Come on out.”

“If you insist,” she said. After she landed on him, knocking his brains out with her elbow. (not as literal as he took it, mind)

“You little-.”

Monica grabbed his arm before he could do that pointy finger thing and threw him over on his back. He stared up at her, his dark-dark eyes dazed…and smiling.

“You hit just the right spot,” he hissed, lewdly, and she realized—well.

She backed away, and he laughed.

“I like you. You’re fun,” he said, wiping his bloody and healing mouth.

But she was long gone, swinging through the rafters and out of sight.

***

Monica read his file, finally gaining the trust of certain powerful people leftover from the Company.

She put her hand to her mouth, her eyes widening when she saw all those photos. The bloody finger-painting picture with his mother…

She stared at the old him, and she wondered how someone could go so wrong. She saw his red room, also taken by the Company.

She saw his compulsively neat room, and she thought he was the kind of guy who would have been stepped on in life so much that he just gave up. Trying to control the simple things in his room, trying to have something of his own.

Until he got a power and it just went from there, spiraling out of control.

There wasn’t anything she could do about it. What was done was done.

But what was the good of being a hero if you couldn’t save someone who needed it?

***

“You didn’t honestly think you could get the drop on me a second time, did you?”

“Fifth time,” Monica corrected, struggling against him, and the streetlight only reflected his dark features. This time he had her in a bear hug, and she thought he was an idiot. “You do realize that I can kill you with my fingernails. I can block your arteries with just a touch.”

“Oh I know,” he purred into her ear, and she repressed a shudder. “You can do so many things, Monica. You have so much potential.”

She didn’t like how he said that. Really, she didn’t.

“Why are you near my family’s house?” That’s where she had found him, lurking in the shadows outside her window. Things had been being moved in her house. Sometimes her things. Drawers with private stuff…

This was getting out of control.

“Why do you think?”

“Not to hurt them,” she said, staring him down. His usual leer faltered. “So why?” she pressed.

“You don’t think I’m capable of hurting your family?”

“I think you could, sure. But you wouldn’t,” Monica said. “It’s not your style.”

“My style...” He seemed to like that. “I guess it’s not.”

“Well you have me,” she said, not about to show fear. “You going to kill me now?”

“Give me a reason not to.”

He was so solemn that her breath caught.

“Because you’ll be a hella bored without me?”

Sylar nodded. “I like a good challenge. And you’re certainly not easy sport.”

“Oh thanks,” Monica said drily.

“No, Monica, thank you,” he said, with that leer again. She felt something clench in her gut, and she realized how pressed against him she was. Oh this was so wrong, and it made her just furious with him.

“That’s St. Joan to you, Sylar.”

He licked his lips, his eyes flickering with a recognition. “A saint. Huh,” he said, and he brushed her dark hair behind her ear. “That…fits.

All right, St. Joan. Keep your eyes open.”

Sylar set her down and disappeared into the darkness.

***

The bank hold-up was tougher than usual.

She had two of the robbers handled, tied up in the back. The other one she had lost sight of, and it made her nervous. There was one of the bank tellers missing, and that could only mean a hostage situation.

Unfortunately, she was right. As she ran into the alley, knife in hand, she found the guy holding a gun to the woman’s head.

“Back off,” the robber yelled. “Back off, or I’ll kill her.”

“Don’t do this. Don’t ruin your life anymore. She didn’t do anything to you,” Monica said, holding up her hands.

The motion was stupid, and it made him flinch after seeing her move like the wind before. She screamed as she heard the gun go off—  
And then it registered.

The gun had gone off in his hand, a misfire when he had pulled the trigger. The woman fell in a heap on the ground. The man screamed his head off, holding his bloody and horribly mangled hand.

Monica was religious. She believed in miracles. But she had a feeling, and she trusted it. She looked down at the end of the alley, and there he was.

As his old self.

Dressed up, she guessed, like one of the comic books her cousin had shown her. He looked like Clark Kent in his glasses. Why would he let her see him like that?

It was like seeing a ghost, and when she blinked, he was gone.

***

“Oh now this? This is ridiculous,” Sylar sighed, hanging upside down, strung up by one leg and suspended by the metal bar of the bridge. He crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow at her.

As much as he could at least.

“Hey. That could hurt a girl’s feelings,” Monica said, sliding down the rope and making him sway, his long black coat all around him. “I learnt this trick just for you.”

“You shouldn’t have,” he muttered, and she pressed her feet against his, standing there.

“Then what should I have given you?”

“I guess that knife of yours in the back of my head,” he replied, mockingly. At her silence, “I know you read my file. You read all about me. That’s not healthy, you know.”

“You’re one to talk about that kind of stuff.”

“I am.”

“…I meant-well, you helped me. I wanted to pay you back.”

“By stringing me up like a turkey. How thoughtful.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“…I didn’t know you were into that.”

She rolled her eyes and flipped forward, wrapping her arms around him…and her legs. It was a long way down. He didn’t flinch when she pressed a finger to the back of his head.

“I wouldn’t need a knife. I could do you in without it. Or just a good axe.”

“You need to work on your dirty talk. I’m not feeling it.”

“Listen. You really did save that lady’s life. You know?”

His eyes had been avoiding hers, probably due to their awkward position, but then—he snapped at her face.

She jerked back and lost her grip.

He grabbed her hand and she held on, flailing in mid-air, looking down at the dark water below, illuminated by the bridge lights. If she fell, she’d die. “Sorry to snap at you, sweetheart. Oh I’m sorry--Saint Joan.

But you forgot what I am.”

“You’re the only one who did that,” she spat.

“Reverse psychology: hopefully you can fly better than you do that.”

“Go on, Gabriel. Drop me. Take the easy way out. Be a coward and run away. That’s what you do best.”

His jaw clenched.

“Not so complicated,” she finished. She thought about her family getting the news, but she wasn’t going to beg. She had known what she was getting into…hadn’t she?

Still, she was scared; still trying to figure a way out, her memory moving from picture to picture of tricks. If she could twist his hand-

“Since you asked so nicely-okay. I’ll drop you.”

He swung her to the metal bar, and it hurt. She grabbed on and watched him fly away, breaking her rope easily.

***

By dropping her, Monica guessed he meant he wasn’t going to deal with her anymore.

She tried to find him, hearing that he had started up killing again.

She felt sick and dirty, and over what, she didn’t know. She had tried to stop him, but if she had just killed him, those people wouldn’t be dead.

Monica had never hated anyone in her life before, had never really understood the emotion. Her grandmother had always said ‘Hate the sin, not the sinner’. She had been all about live and let live. She had been taught to see the good in people.

But this man she hated. She despised him, and she set up a nice punching bag with his name (and face) on it.

She moved from city to city, now with a different motive in mind.  
Next time St. Joan saw Sylar, she’d drop him.

For good.

***

Monica got the news at three o’clock in the morning.

There had been a home break-in. Her Nana had been shot. They had done all they could.

She flew straight home, not seeing or thinking a thing the whole time. Somehow she got to the service, through the service—and went back to the church, kind of wandered in.

She sat on the bench and looked at the ornate glass. She hadn’t been there. She had been an idiot. She had lost her mother, and now her grandmother. She couldn’t do a thing to change it.

“I always wondered if it was a self-proclaimed title.”

Monica tensed, hearing his footsteps on the tile.

“A saint. I had never seen you go to church when I followed you before. Funny.”

She threw a Bible at him, and he laughed that laugh again, but it was just a distraction. She was running down the aisle towards him, and she was on him in a minute, beating his face in with her fists.

“It’s because of you I wasn’t here!” Monica screamed. “It’s because of you I couldn’t protect her!”

She hit and hit and hit, not pausing, and after what seemed like hours, it occurred to her that he was letting her. She stared down at his healing face, and thought about snapping his neck and keeping like that. Finding something sharp in this church (maybe the glass) to stop him for good.

Instead, she couldn’t move. Instead, she collapsed. She was tired, and she couldn’t fight anymore.

“You can kill me if you want to. Maybe you could do better with this ability.”

He moved his hands, and she closed her eyes, waiting for it. He wrapped his arms around her. Not doing anything but just—

She hated him, but she let him. They lay there, not moving. She didn’t know for how long.

“When my dad left, I promised I’d be enough. I’d do anything, learn anything to help my mom. But turns out, I wasn’t enough. I made another promise. Turned out the same way.”

She lifted her head, putting her chin on his chest. “Too bad they don’t give out videos on how to be a saint, huh. Let alone a worthwhile person.”

“Come with me,” he said, and he lifted her up, pulling her to her feet. Monica knew she shouldn’t go anywhere with him. There was still her little brother to think of: her angry brother. They didn’t have videos on how to change that either.

She followed him.

***

“I didn’t see this coming,” Monica admitted, sitting across from him in a hotel room. A drink in her hand.

Sylar shrugged, stretched out on the bed. She tried not to look at him, or the blood stains on his collar. “You need to take your mind off of it.”

“So you give me a drink? That’s kind of cliché, don’t you think?”

“It is for a reason. I thought you’d like it better than me giving you a reason to fight me.”

“Like a robbery?”

He gave her a wounded look. “As if I would do something like that. That's terrible. I was thinking more along the line of a double homicide.”

He deadpanned it so that she had to laugh even though she felt bad about it. “I’m on to you. If I get drunk, I wouldn’t be much of a…how’d you put it…challenge.”

“You won’t be needing your ability. Not tonight. I promise.”

“The old ‘cross your heart and hope to die’ thing loses impact with your healing ability. Besides, I was under the impression I would need my ability.”

His dark eyes searched hers, and she looked down. “That was a joke,” she said quickly, but he had gotten to his feet and had taken the drink out of her hand.

“And a very good idea. Wouldn’t you say that would take your mind off things?”

“You’re disgusting,” she said, suddenly in a rage. “You think I’d sleep with you after what happened?!”

“I don’t think, I know. I’ve come prepared,” he said, smiling at her, and he dug a condom out of his pocket. She couldn’t help it. She punched him again, and while he was staggering back, she kicked his feet out from under him. He fell back onto the bed, and she was on top of him again.

And after a few hits—out of hating what he could be if he would only get a clue, if he would only change—somehow when he licked his (healing again) lips, she leaned down and kissed him.

It was just to show him, just to meet his dare. It was how they had worked, it was how they fought—that was all.

So when he gripped her hair in his hand and forced her to continue kissing him, when he ran his other hand under her skirt, sticking a finger under the band of her panties—well, she moved against him, not about to back down.

Things had gone too far when he was on top of her and unzipping her dress—her mourning dress—.

She was breathing hard, and she couldn’t stop. Something warm coiled down low, and she wanted him, and this was so wrong.

“Oh my god,” she said, shocked.

“Shhh. It’s all right,” Sylar said, taking a moment to press his erection against her thigh (taking her breath away) and rubbing a finger along her cheeks, her lips very gently. “You’re beautiful.”

“T-that’s not-the problem with this sc-enario,” she gasped.

“A modest saint, too” he said, drily, and he kissed her neck, leaving a trail of warmth. A bad guy like him shouldn’t be built this well, Monica thought, as she grew bold and ran her hand under his shirt.

“I’ve never-,” she started.

“I don’t care. It’s okay…” There was a pause. “Being afraid doesn’t suit you.”

She was so nervous to be glad to be under him for once, and she was so nervous at his look. She felt embarrassed and open. Way too open. This man, he had killed so many, and that look in his eyes of pure want, of taking, shouldn’t make her feeling like she was coming apart in slow, pleasurable pieces.

When he turned off the light, she wanted to die.

“It’s not….you are beautiful,” he said, cupping her breast almost…shyly. She couldn’t see his expression. ”You shouldn’t have to see me. I’m not…”

“I want to.” She tried to reach out to him, but he pushed her arms high over her head.

“I don’t care,” he growled out harshly, and she should have kicked him again. She forgot when she felt him rub her clit. She forgot when he slipped a finger, and then another, deep inside of her. She pulled him close, crying out.

Monica had felt pain before, and this unfamiliar sensation of a man inside of her did hurt.

“Are you all right?” he breathed out.

“Are you?” she challenged, and that was the end of that. Soon—that pain changed. Monica had felt pain (of all kinds) so badly she thought it was impossible to live. Now she was feeling so much pleasure that she thought it was impossible—this would kill her.

He thrust inside of her, building a rhythm, and she bit his shoulder to stop from letting him know how good this felt. Thank god that light was off.

In response, he kissed her neck again. So gently. Bastard. Asshole.

She didn’t want to come but he coaxed her into an orgasm. The pleasure washed over her, and she screamed despite herself. He came soon after.

Monica didn’t know what to do then, in the darkness.

“Well,” she offered, and he chuckled. There was the smell of sex in the air, and she felt him still all over her. She hated that he had felt that good. How was that possible?

“I think you should know. Uh, just in case something happened, still, I’m on-.”

“Birth control. I know.”

Monica stiffened.

“I’ve read up on you too,” he clarified.

“You’re the creepiest man I’ve ever met,” she said.

“Thank you. Let’s hope it stays that way,” he said, and then to her disbelief, he sat up and stared to get dressed.

“What are you doing?” Monica asked, sitting up.

“What I do best,” he said. “Remember?"

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she whispered, and he paused, looking back at her. He pulled her close again, looping an arm around her.

“We’re natural enemies, you and I. I wouldn’t give up our working relationship for anything. Would you?”

“I hate you,” Monica growled out.

“That’s the spirit. But I’ll always be there for you to hate. For as long as you live,” he said, pressing his forehead against hers. In a way, he had been trying to…help.

Impossible as it seemed.

“You’ll kill me right?”

“I won’t say no. That would take the fun out it. Kill the suspense.” But suddenly, she got it.

“You won’t let me quit,” she said, amazed.

“Never.”

“Next time, I’m dropping you,” she promised.

He let her go, and she listened to him get dressed. “Next time, you choose the place.”

Monica went to tell him off but he was gone.

Then she knew she could go on. People were counting on her still. Next time, what was going to happen would happen.

And she smiled, knowing she’d win.


End file.
